


something gave you the nerve to touch my hand

by dwoht



Category: Glee
Genre: F/F, Fluff, idk read the note at the beginning bc this fic is literally based on one comment rachel made, ish, set like in early season 1
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-13
Updated: 2020-11-13
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:07:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27539626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dwoht/pseuds/dwoht
Summary: Rachel just stands there, watching her. She has an ache in her heart for a girl who’s barely nice to her, and hands that don’t know what to do with themselves. As much as she tries to pretend otherwise, because it’s easier to mindlessly hate her when she doesn’t think about the fact that the blonde is probably just as tortured as she is, Quinn has feelings.Rachel almost wishes she didn’t.ORSlushies and bathroom stalls.
Relationships: Rachel Berry/Quinn Fabray
Comments: 6
Kudos: 120





	something gave you the nerve to touch my hand

**Author's Note:**

> based on this tumblr post: https://quinnfebrey.tumblr.com/post/634656208837591040/okay-im-re-watching-glee-and-in-1x08-puck-get

Getting slushee-ed never gets less humiliating.

Not only do the jocks have to actually go purchase the drinks from the local 7/11, they then have to drive back to school, walk around the halls looking for someone, and then throw it in their face. The idea that they would come up with that is just as outrageous as the fact that somehow the school doesn’t do anything about it.

Rachel has had her fair share of slushies, and really at this point it’s what they stand for that hurts the most, but the ice cold chunks to the face that drip into a sticky, soggy mess aren’t all that great either.

Not to mention, the laughter that inevitably follows is far from the kind of attention she usually likes.

So, no, it doesn’t get less humiliating. It _does_ get easier to clean up afterwards, and the process is something Rachel has perfected after almost two years at the school.

She strides down the hall towards her locker, and refuses to look anyone in the eye lest she burst into tears. That in itself is a frustrating feeling altogether — Rachel would think she’d have gotten over that part of it by now, and at this point the tears that threaten to run down her cheeks every time she gets slushee-ed just make her angry, which then leads to more tears.

She grabs her clean-up kit, extra change of clothes, and goes to the bathroom in the corner of the language department that nobody ever goes to in case they run into a teacher that tries to get them to speak Spanish outside of class or something.

The bathroom is empty, as always, and Rachel breathes a sigh of relief, not missing the way her chest quivers as she exhales.

Her hands run smoothly and practically on auto-pilot as she retrieves the fold-up chair she hides inside the big stall. On it, she lays out her extra clothes, then her towel, and on the sink counter she arranges the shampoo, leave in conditioner, hairbrush, and travel hair dryer she keeps in her locker.

Stripping herself of her sweater at least gets most of the sopping mess off her skin, and she already feels lighter when she starts finger-combing her luckily not-yet-dried hair out in preparation of rinsing it out.

The process of washing hair in sink is about as glamorous and fun as it sounds, and usually results in a good lot of water down her shirt and an ache in her neck. It gets the job done, however, and as she’s letting the water strip the last of the shampoo out of her hair, she finds that except for everything about the situation, the whole process is kind of relaxing.

She’s just toweling off her head and reaching her her leave in conditioner when the door opens.

Rachel’s heart drops into her stomach, and her hands fumble for _something,_ though she’s not sure what exactly she’s trying to accomplish. She prepares herself for scorn, more ridicule, laughter, and maybe even her photo being taken, but in the doorway stands Quinn.

Quinn, in all her Cheerios glory, wide hazel eyes, sensitive smile, and hair tighter than the tension in her shoulders. Only this time, her eyes are aghast with what looks like fear, her smile is somewhere far beneath her shaky frown, and her hair is soaked with what Rachel immediately identifies as grape slushee.

Her _first_ slushee, probably.

The ice and syrup drips down to her neck and onto to the strap of the gym bag slung over her right shoulder. Both hands grip it closer to her as if she’s holding on for dear life.

Rachel doesn’t know what to say. She’s standing there as frozen as Quinn is, and has half a mind to try and greet the cheerleader, but the look of absolute shock on the blonde’s face is almost scary because since when did Quinn have feelings?

Well, that’s a lie. She always has. It’s the one thing Rachel has always been so stuck on.

The other cheerleaders are lost causes. They don’t know their right foot from their left, can’t count to ten without skipping two numbers, and Rachel isn’t sure some of them are even legally sentient. They do and say without thinking, and really it’s mostly as if they’re just worker bees acting on instinct and nothing more.

Not Quinn, though. Quinn is smart, calculated. She has a 4.0 GPA, and has a better practice SAT score than Rachel… not that she keeps tabs or anything. Everything she says is done with grace and intent, and every action she makes is only executed after she has thought it through ten steps ahead.

And Quinn has feelings _._

When she laughs, it’s a real laugh. It’s not a fake chuckle or a catatonic giggle, it’s a deep, body-shaking laugh that splits her face open and practically radiates the damn sun. When she’s angry, storm clouds gather and her words spit fire as she stalks the halls like a tornado ready to let loose on anyone in her path.

When she’s thoughtful, her left eyebrow furrows, she nibbles on the inside of her cheek, and Rachel can practically hear the weight of her thoughts. When she’s sad, her lower lip sticks out ever so slightly, and her eyes cloud with something that can only be described as exhaustion.

When she sings, for a brief moment, Rachel sees her shoulders lift and her body alight with a kind of energy and peace Quinn deserves to feel all the time. When she’s humming to sheet music or swaying to piano, her carefully built facade fades just enough for her youthful schoolgirl to show through.

And right now, Quinn is afraid.

Her eyebrows are neutral, but her eyes stare straight ahead without seeing. Her hands grip the strap of her bag so tightly her knuckles turn white, and though they’re even, her breaths are shallow and timid between slightly parted lips.

Rachel didn’t know Quinn _could_ be afraid.

Rachel just stands there, watching her. She has an ache in her heart for a girl who’s barely nice to her, and hands that don’t know what to do with themselves. As much as she tries to pretend otherwise, because it’s easier to mindlessly hate her when she doesn’t think about the fact that the blonde is probably just as tortured and hurt as she is, Quinn has feelings.

Rachel almost wishes she didn’t. 

She keeps her eyes downcast, because she decides ignoring the elephant in the room is the better decision, and returns to her task of applying her leave in conditioner to her hair. She finger combs through the now clean strands as she sees Quinn take a place in front of the other sink, and hears the slump of her bag on the ground.

Rachel’s movements feel painfully awkward as she plugs in her hair dryer and starts it going, but after a few seconds of going through her damp hair with a brush and the hot — really, lukewarm at best — air, she sneaks a peak.

Quinn’s face is still impassive, but her eyes stare off into the distance with a glassy, almost disappointed expression. Her walls are built carefully and thickly, but her eyes are still windows. They always have been. At least, _Rachel_ has always been able to see through them.

Rachel has half a mind to finish up as quickly as she can and then leave the poor girl alone to probably cry and break down, which Rachel definitely did the first time _she_ got slushee-ed, but her brain catches on the fact that Quinn is doing it _wrong_ , and before she can stop herself, she says, “Wait.” Quinn turns, eyebrows furrowing as if she can’t decide whether she’s going to pretend to be angry. Her tongue feels thick in her mouth, but she forces out, “The water. If you use cold, it’ll just solidify the sugar.”

“Science says you’re wrong,” Quinn replies, voice startlingly level. “Sugar is soluble in water of all temperatures, you know.”

“I know, but —“ she huffs. “Just use hot water. It’s faster and easier, I promise.”

“I don't think these sinks run warmer than room temperature,” Quinn says, wringing out her ponytail, which, another mistake.

“It does, you just have to wait for it to heat up,” Rachel says, cringing at how much she knows about washing syrup out of her hair.

“I apologize for not knowing everything about washing slushee out of my hair,” Quinn spits at her, “I’m not you, after all.” A pause. She huffs, though it’s clearly mostly at herself. “Sorry.”

Rachel sighs. “Come here.”

“Why?” Quinn looks unsure for the first time Rachel has ever seen.

“I’ll help you,” she says. “I’m good at it.” She rolls her eyes at the cheerleaders hesitation. “After being the recipient of slushees for so long,” she says pointedly, at which Quinn has the decency to look down, “I have perfected the art of washing it out.” Quinn hesitantly closes the gap between them. “And take your shirt off.”

“What?” Quinn looks absolutely scandalized, and actually backs up a step.

Rachel rolls her eyes again, but blushes as she forces out, “Trust me, it’s easier to keep the water out of your clothes and will allow your skin to dry so you can change into your new clothes as soon as your done with your hair. You brought an extra set, right?”

Quinn nods, gesturing vaguely towards her bag. “I always keep a second pair in my locker.” Her fingers shake unmistakably as she unzips the back of the top and tugs her Cheerio uniform shirt over her head, and her hands clench into fists for a split-second after she’s tossed the soiled clothing back towards her back.

“Well, come sit,” Rachel says, nodding towards the chair she has pushed over against the sink. Quinn sits back in it, hands clasped in her lap, and Rachel definitely does _not_ notice how Quinn has an actual six-pack.

The blonde closes her eyes as Rachel pulls the hair ties loose and starts finger-combing Quinn’s hair out. Despite the whole slushee thing, her hair is surprisingly soft, which she has to admit she always wondered about after so many days of seeing those perfectly crafted ponytail ringlets.

Rachel doesn’t think she’s ever actually been this up close to Quinn before, and she’s still reeling from the surprise of Quinn actually taking her help and not just insulting her into silence. As always, the blonde’s expression is impossible to read, no more information being given than the blonde has chosen to offer.

She’s pulled out of her thoughts as she feels Quinn’s breathing quicken just a half-step. When she squeezes her eyes shut tightly, a single tear runs down her temple and disappears into her hair. “I’m sorry,” she says eventually.

Rachel’s fingers still. “For what?”

Quinn’s lower lip quivers. “I don’t know.”

She twists the water on, running Quinn’s hair through it until it starts to run clear, and then adding a dab of shampoo to her hands as she massages it all the way through. “It’s okay.”

“It’s not,” comes Quinn’s immediate reply. “I mean, this whole thing is bullshit. High school, popularity, social status. It’s all just bullshit. And I know it’s not fair for me to suddenly realize that now that I’m at the bottom and not reaping the benefits —“

“You’re not at the _bottom_ ,” Rachel says, dismissing the notion as quickly as it’s introduced.

“I’m in Glee Club,” Quinn says. Rachel’s throat tightens, because really, is hating Glee Club still a thing? Quinn must notice her expression because she backtracks. “I’m in Glee Club, _and_ I like it. I really do. You’re… not so bad. Everyone is pretty nice, actually, and I have always enjoyed singing and performing. But there’s a reason everyone used to bully you guys.”

“Still do,” Rachel says, rinsing out the shampoo.

“Not me,” Quinn says. Her lower lip disappears under her front teeth, and then she releases it with a purse of her lips. “Not that that counts for much, but not me. Not anymore.”

“Well, life isn’t about being perfect the first time, it’s about doing better the second,” Rachel says. “See? It’s okay.” Quinn’s lips quirk into a smile. A small one, but a smile. Rachel takes that as a win.

It drops into a frown, though. “And if Glee Club wasn’t bad enough, I’m… well, you know. Nobody knows yet, but they will,” Quinn sighs. “And you were right. Sue isn’t going to keep taking care of me. Brittany and Santana? We’ll see. The rest of them? Not a chance.”

“You’ll have us in Glee,” Rachel says. She turns off the water. “You’ll have _me_.”

“Why?” Quinn asks. That tortured look is back, and she closes her eyes as Rachel starts toweling her hair dry.

“Why what?” she asks.

“Why are you being nice to me?” Quinn asks.

“We’re on the same team now,” Rachel says, opting for the diplomatic answer. The cheerleader doesn’t look convinced. She takes a deep breath, wondering why throwing herself at Finn wasn’t nearly as nerve-wracking as this, but continues, “Look, I — I like you Quinn. You’re extremely talented, and surprisingly funny when you’re not making fun of me, and you’re ambitious and thoughtful and smart and you have so much kindness in you.”

“I’m not a nice person, Rachel,” Quinn says quietly.

“You could be,” Rachel says, shrugging.

“How do you know?” Quinn asks, laughing lightly as if the notion is ridiculous, but the chuckle lands without humor, and there’s a bitterness in her fingers as she laces them together.

Rachel’s quiet for a moment, hands deftly combing the conditioner in. “Because you’re me.” Her hands still. “Or, I’m you. We’re the same people who just happened to work life out differently.”

“Oh?” Quinn says, not an ounce of belief in her tone.

“Both of us are ambitious to a fault, we have goals, we have things we want to accomplish and the brains and determination to do it,” Rachel says, resuming her work. “I know what everyone in Glee says about me, and they’re right. I’m kind of a selfish person. When I want something, I want it. And I can bet that if I had somehow managed to become popular like you, I would have done and said all the things you’ve done to get where I wanted to go. You’re no worse than I am.”

“So then we’re both bad people,” Quinn decides, frowning even deeper. “Great.”

Rachel rolls her eyes. “No, we’re _real_ people. We’re flawed. That’s life. But you… you feel things so deeply, Quinn. The way you sing, the way you talk, the way you care for your, uh, baby. You have so much feeling inside of you. Nobody has that amount of depth and not an ounce of kindness.”

“I never even wanted to be this way,” Quinn says quietly. Rachel reaches for the hair dryer, which was four dollars and is somehow softer than Quinn’s voice. “I was different before high school. I was like you. Maybe worse. At least you’re pretty.”

“ _You’re_ the prettiest girl I’ve ever met,” Rachel throws back at her almost too-quickly.

A pause. Rachel flushes, and though she’s not sure if it’s wishful thinking, she swears she sees a pink tint rise on Quinn’s cheeks.

“I am now,” Quinn admits easily. “I wasn’t. And I was bullied just like you, maybe worse. God, it was relentless. I told myself I’d do anything I had to never feel that way ever again. I changed my clothes, changed school districts. A broken nose at the optimal time allowed me a nose job. I started working out so I’d have the right body. And when I came to Lima, I was automatically accepted. I rose to the top faster than I thought was possible. And I thought it would make me happy.”

“Did it?” Rachel asks.

Quinn shakes her head. “I don’t think happiness is in the cards for me.”

“Why not?” Rachel presses.  
A chuckle.

“Why _not_? When I look in the mirror, all I see is who I used to be. No amount of uniforms or tight ponytails will change that. When I think about my future, I’m married to some country-club man as a stay-at-home soccer mom,” she says bitterly. Rachel’s ear catches on _something_ about that, but she can’t quite figure out what. “When I think about my parents, I only wonder how they’re going to kick me out. So If I’m not happy with who I am, who I love, or the people who say they love _me_ , what is there left?”

Rachel’s quiet, because good Lord, she knew Quinn wasn’t _perfect,_ but this is turning into a damn near therapy session. She switches off the hair dryer.

“You don’t have to be different than who you were to be happy with yourself. We are all a culmination of the people we used to be,” Rachel says. “And your family can suck it if they don’t love you, including the mistakes you may have made. Ever heard of a chosen family?” Quinn shakes her head. “Blood and DNA and last names don’t make a family, love and support does. Some of us are lucky to get both. Some find it elsewhere. _You_ will find people who care about you.”

“Not if I never leave this town,” Quinn sighs. “But, go ahead and keep trying to solve my problems, Berry.”

“Well, as for who you love…,” Rachel says, treading carefully, because she’s still not sure exactly what Quinn was trying to say, “that can be whoever you want.” Quinn looks _terrified_. “You know, whether that’s someone in Ohio or New York or Sweden or wherever.”

Quinn’s shoulders relax. “And the soccer mom part?” she teases.

Rachel shrugs. “I could see you excelling in that role if that’s what you chose because you _wanted_ it, but you underestimate yourself. Nobody has the power to make you do anything you don’t really want to do.”

“ _You_ got me to let you wash my hair,” Quinn observes.

“Maybe you secretly wanted me to,” Rachel counters.

Quinn stifles a grin. Her hands run absentmindedly through her now clean _and_ dry hair _._ “Thank you, Rachel.” She pulls her hair up half way into a ponytail, and then lets it fall down. “If you’re right, and we’re secretly just each other — well, if I have half the kindness you do, maybe there’s hope for me after all.”

“You talk down to yourself,” Rachel says softly. She shakes her head, because God, is she the only one who notices her? “And you talk me up. You’re probably a nicer person than I am,” she admits. “But I wish you could see yourself how I see you.”

“How’s that?” Quinn asks quietly.

“Intelligent. Talented. Determined.” Rachel exhales slowly. “Beautiful. A future singer. Or perhaps a writer. Or a mother. Or anything you choose. I see you in and as everything because you are limitless, Quinn.”

She reaches to brush a stray lock of her blonde hair back from where it hangs around her face as if it doesn’t know what to do outside of a ponytail. Her fingers still at her jaw, though she doesn’t know why, and Rachel can’t help but wonder at how she came to be a person who is in the position to look down at Quinn and hold her — and while she’s shirtless, no less.

Quinn’s hand comes up to rest along hers, and Rachel thinks she might push her away, but she doesn’t. She grips Rachel’s hand like it’s keeping her afloat, and her eyes search through Rachel’s as deeply as Rachel knows she’s examining her back.

This is a _moment_.

And if Rachel was smarter, she’d figure out why it’s so significant, but as soon as she sees Quinn’s eyes flicker down to her lips, she catches a flash of fear when those hazel eyes snap up to meet hers.

So she steps back. “Well, we should get to class. It was nice to have someone to hang out with this time. Usually I do it alone.”

  
“Right, the slushee,” Quinn says, relief palpable as the tension dissipates. She smiles, a real genuine smile. “I almost forgot about that part.”

They get dressed silently, Rachel swapping out her sweater for the one laid out, and Quinn slipping into a fresh uniform. The only thing about her that looks out of place is her hair, which honestly still looks great.

And though Rachel didn’t even notice Quinn’s guard dropping during the half hour or so, she sees how with every step Quinn does to get herself presentable again — clothing, makeup, a braid down her shoulder — she adds another layer back on to herself.

By the time they’re done, Quinn’s face is impassive, her eyes are hardened, and her mouth is set as she hoists her bag up and stares down the mirror as if practicing for the halls of McKinley. She’s suddenly once again the ruthless cheerleader Rachel knows too well, but then she remarks in the idea that she really doesn’t know her at all.

Quinn turns to go, with Rachel in tow, and though Rachel was never this brave, something gives her the nerve to reach out and grab just the tips of Quinn’s right hand. The blonde inhales a sharp intake of breath, but doesn’t pull away. She just looks at Rachel, mask still on, but eyes cautious.

Rachel doesn’t even know _why_ she did that, but she has to say _something_ , so she just offers, “If you ever want to talk or — or practice music or whatever. I would be happy to.”

Quinn’s eyes flick down to the brush of their fingers, and she lets out a breath slowly. “That would be nice,” is all she says quietly.

And then, in a flurry of everything that makes up the one person Rachel still can’t figure out, she’s gone.

**Author's Note:**

> quinnfebrey on tumblr. come chat!


End file.
